Editor's note: This story by Register reporter Mike Kilen was originally published in May 2017.

Some Iowa small towns have a Casey’s General Store at each end, just in case you need a slice of pizza at one and a clean bathroom soon after.

The pizza is legendary, but not enough can be said about a public bathroom that doesn’t make you wonder about lack of civility, proper aim and hepatitis.

Forget about Iowa's best burger or tenderloin for a minute. During summer travels, a clean bathroom is no small thing to be proud of, according to every Iowa mother ever.

The red-and-yellow sign of the Iowa-born convenience store chain with 518 Iowa locations is a welcome sight when nature calls. You may have other favorites. Mine is based on 25 years of traveling through every Iowa county on reporting assignments, often after several cups of coffee to add urgency.

Some public restrooms are so gross that even the complicated construction of a toilet paper lid cover doesn’t ease anxiety. If you enjoy mysterious puddles of fluids, greasy sinks, graffiti, condom vending machines and dirty cloth towels you pull through a roller to dry your hands, then a Casey’s bathroom is not for you.

Fifty-seven percent of Casey’s stores are in towns of 5,000 population or fewer, so it relies on repeat traffic. Clean restrooms are a focus to keep them coming back, says Sam James, director of finance at the Ankeny-headquartered chain.

Casey’s was born in Iowa in 1959, when founder Don Lamberti leased an oil station on East 14th Street in Des Moines, added stores in Boone and Waukee, and realized small towns were the ticket. It is now one of the nation’s largest convenience store chains with just under 2,000 stores in 15 Midwest states.

But Iowa is its home, and Iowans prize tidiness, even amid foul smells. (Some farmers mow their ditches near the hog lot.)

Trust also ranks high here. You don’t have to ask for a bathroom key tied to a germ-infested key chain holder the size of your arm. In 71 of its older stores, Casey’s even invites you to step a few feet behind the cash register to the can in a tiny water closet.

It’s odd hearing chatter about the weather or town gossip from the front counter while one takes care of business.

The Casey’s is one of the last places to gather in struggling small towns – old men standing by the coffee in the morning chatting with neighbors – and one of the few places for travelers to eat because the café is gone.

It’s become a marker of place.

Maybe that’s why the bathroom is treated like it’s our own. You don’t have to wonder, well, what happened in here?